Charlie M

meeting.’

‘Have your analysts examined every report and transcript?’ asked Charlie.

‘Yes,’ said Braley, shortly.

‘To what conclusion?’ demanded Charlie.

‘Apprehension,’ accepted Ruttgers. ‘But not the outright doubt that you’re expressing, Charles.’

‘Charlie,’ stopped the Englishman.

Ruttgers frowned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ demanded the American Director.

‘If you must use it, the Christian name is Charlie,’ he corrected.

Ruttgers looked in bewildered exasperation at Cuthbertson, who shrugged. Muffin was amazingly vindictive, decided Cuthbertson. Almost childishly so.

‘It just doesn’t feel right,’ swept on Charlie, enjoying his control of the meeting. They were all uncomfortable and confused, he saw, happily.

‘I know what you mean,’ said the American, staring at the peculiar Englishman. ‘But at this stage, we’ve got no choice but to go along with it.’

‘What about access to Snare?’ reminded Charlie, coming back to Cuthbertson.

‘Deferred,’ reported the permanently red-faced man. ‘Without any explanation.’

Charlie shook his head, unhappily, as if the delay confirmed his concern.

‘We can do nothing except follow Kalenin’s lead,’ stressed Braley, again taking his chief’s lead.

‘I believe Kalenin when he said he’s putting me under surveillance,’ said Charlie, opening a new course of discussion. ‘Even here, in London.’

Both Ruttgers and Cuthbertson frowned.

‘Have you been aware of it?’ asked Wilberforce.

‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘But if they were good, and they will be, then I wouldn’t know of it, would I?’

‘So?’ queried Ruttgers. He examined the Englishman with interest. He was a complete professional, thought the C.I.A. Director: the only one, apart from himself and Braley, in the room.

‘So we must wash the money.’

Ruttgers moved, uncomfortably, like a subordinate aware of an indiscretion in front of the managing director at a firm’s Christmas party.

‘Now wait a minute …’

‘… we can’t wait a minute,’ cut off Charlie. ‘If that money isn’t broken down, Kalenin will know about it. You heard the tape. He just won’t cross.’

‘What’ll that involve?’ asked Braley.

‘To do it sufficiently publicly?’ said Charlie, rhetorically. ‘I’d say about two weeks to cover London, the South of France and Austria. And that’s not allowing for any unforeseen difficulties.’

‘We did record the numbers,’ confessed Ruttgers. ‘And it took us nearly a week, even feeding into a computer.’

‘We’ll still be able to keep a check,’ said Charlie.

‘How?’ asked Ruttgers.

‘Knowing every number is the optimum. And unnecessary,’ Charlie lectured. ‘To trace the money, if you need to, we’d need just a sample. Braley and I could use a pocket assessor and feed in a section of the cleaned money.’

Ruttgers frowned, doubtfully.

‘And let’s face it, you’re being incredibly cautious,’ stressed Charlie. ‘At a conservative estimate, it’ll take two years completely to debrief Kalenin. And even then he’ll need and probably demand help with a new identity, place to live and permanent guards. We’ll be aware of his location for ten to fifteen years from now. The money is very unimportant, except to him.’

And to the American Congress, thought Ruttgers. But the Briton was talking complete common sense. It really didn’t matter and Keys would have to accept that ground conditions made the change necessary. Equated against the amount of money the C.I.A. spent yearly, sometimes on madcap projects, this investment was infinitesimal, anyway. Ruttgers nodded acceptance, shifting from the window.

The man found it difficult to remain in any one position, thought Charlie, watching Ruttgers settle into the chair he had already quit four times during the course of the meeting.

Like Charlie, Ruttgers felt there was something indefinably wrong about the whole thing. But he did have what he wanted, a man involved from this moment in every aspect of the crossing, the American Director reassured himself.

‘Right,’ he accepted. ‘We’ll do what you suggest and hope it’s right.’

‘That’s the trouble,’ seized Charlie. ‘None of us knows whether we’re right or not. And we won’t for three weeks.’

Berenkov looked a caricature of the man he had once been, thought Charlie. The Russian edged almost apprehensively into the room, all exuberance gone, standing just inside the door and staring at his visitor, awaiting permission to advance further.

The man’s skin looked oily, but flaking, as if he were suffering from some kind of dermatitis and there was a curtain of disinterest over his eyes. He shuffled rather than walked, scarcely lifting his feet and when he spoke it was in the prison fashion, his lips unmoving.

‘Good of you to come, Charlie,’ he said. The voice was flat, completely devoid of expression.

‘You don’t look good, Alexei.’

The man stayed where he was, just inside the entrance.

‘Come in, Alexei. Sit down,’ invited Charlie. He felt patronising.

‘It’s been over a year,’ mumbled Berenkov, through those unmoving lips, disordering his hair with a nervous hand as he settled at the table. ‘One year, three months and two weeks.’

And two days, knew Charlie. How long, he wondered, before men with a sentence as long as Berenkov’s stopped marking the calendar?

He had nothing to say, realised Charlie.

‘I brought some magazines,’ he tried, hopefully. They’re being examined by the prison authorities, but it’ll only take a few minutes. You should have them by tonight.’

‘Thank you,’ said Berenkov, unresponsively.

He wouldn’t read them, Charlie realised. The degree of apathy into which the Russian had sunk would mean he spent all his cell-time staring at the wall, his mind empty. Berenkov had the smell of cheap soap and the proximity of too many bodies, thought Charlie, distastefully.

‘Any tobacco?’ cadged the Russian, hopefully.

Charlie pushed some cigarettes across the table. Berenkov took one, hesitated, then slid the rest into his pocket. He stopped, frozen for a second to await the challenge from Charlie. The Briton said nothing and Berenkov relaxed.

‘Doing anything interesting?’ asked the Russian.

Charlie looked at him curiously. It was a question without hidden point, he decided.

‘No,’ he generalised. ‘Just clerking.’

Berenkov nodded. He’d barely assimilated the words, Charlie saw.

‘But I’m going away on holiday for a few weeks,’ covered Charlie. ‘I won’t be able to see you for a while.’

Momentarily the curtain lifted and Berenkov frowned, like a child being deprived without reason of a Sunday treat.

‘You won’t abandon me, Charlie?’ he pleaded.

‘Of course I won’t,’ assured Charlie, holding without any self-consciousness the hand that Berenkov thrust forward. ‘I made you a promise, didn’t I?’

‘Don’t let me down, Charlie. Please don’t let me down.’

In Janet’s flat, three hours later, he swilled brandy around the bowl, watching it cling to the side. He looked up suddenly at the girl.

‘You know what?’ he demanded.

‘What?’ responded Janet.